


missing the war

by natlet



Series: please do not let me go [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6596650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Come out to the ship, Flint had told him the night before - tomorrow, before the watch changes, if your mind hasn't changed first.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	missing the war

**Author's Note:**

> direct sequel to [the other one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6528697). note to self: you officially don't get to say "i don't do part two" any more. we're still post-3x10
> 
> this has some hinky ableist language issues (all self-directed)

The next day is torture - of the most exquisite sort, no doubt, but torture nonetheless. John does his best to focus on the business at the beach, rebuilding the barricades, taking stock of their guns and ammunition, taking stock of the damage - but his gaze is drawn over and over again to the Walrus, anchored just beyond the breakers near the edge of the little bay. 

There's a patch of reddened skin at the base of his throat, too faint to be noticed by anyone else, just irritated enough to draw John's attention when his shirt brushes against it. It's as good an excuse as any, he thinks - of course he can't get his mind off it. He just wishes he knew for sure if he was the only one.

Flint had decided to remain on board that morning, left Rackham to deliver the news after what seemed to have been a brief and altogether unproductive meeting; "Captain Flint will not be joining us today," Jack had said, catching himself on the edge of the longboat as he'd come ashore; "He prefers his solitude over our often questionable company, and trusts we have efforts here and in the village well in hand. And besides, he has fucking work to do. A direct quotation," he'd added, at John's look, but hadn't elaborated further. 

John, to be honest, was expecting as much; Flint had left him wanting the night before, lips red from kissing and a head full of new questions but both of them otherwise unfulfilled, and just the fact that he'd been able to do it suggested to John this next step between them might not be taken as easily as he'd hoped. He still isn't sure why - whether Flint is reconsidering, taken aback by the speed at which their intimacy had grown, or if perhaps he's circling again round the edges of the vortex he'd slipped into after Charles Town - he's better at reading Flint than he used to be, but sometimes the man's still beyond him. 

Come out to the ship, Flint had told him the night before - tomorrow, before the watch changes, if your mind hasn't changed first, and John had known then he wouldn't be coming back ashore. He's a little surprised Flint had managed to follow through with it, is all. 

("Please don't," he'd said, when Flint had first said he should go, and it hadn't worked - he hadn't really thought it would - but it had earned him a soft laugh and an equally soft kiss, and John did not, would not think about how each of them had felt like a gift.) 

He takes a longboat out with the first of the night watch; the bay has been quiet today, and for once he climbs with relative ease up the Walrus' side and over the rail. Flint isn't on deck, which is irritating for about a thousand different reasons John can't fully describe - not the least of which is that now he has to go looking for him, and he's probably in his cabin, but. Still. The presumption in it rubs John the wrong way - like John's going to stomp all over the fucking ship hunting him down, like he's expected to, like it's a foregone conclusion that he will. 

He waves off DeGroot, makes his way down from the quarterdeck on his own; their offers of help are mostly ceremonial by now, he knows - he's never once accepted - but he understands the act is what's important, equally as important as his response to it, part of the call and answer that is his relationship to the men, the assurance of his authority and competence. He doesn't like it, but he understands it. 

He's never knocked before entering the captain's cabin, either, and he sees no sense in starting now. If Flint wants him out, he knows well enough to bolt the door, and he hasn't, so. Inside, Flint is sat behind his wide desk, scribbling in the log. He doesn't look up as John enters, and John frowns at him. "Are you serious?" 

Flint's quill scrapes steadily across the parchment. He's half sprawled on the desk, elbows thrown wide, head bowed; he looks utterly bored, and John almost, almost wants to choke him. 

"You're - you are unbearable, do you know that? You leave me like that last night, you stay sequestered away on the water all day, you're shut up in here so completely sure I'll respond to your summons you don't bother coming up on deck to greet me, and now you can't even say hello?" 

"You're here, aren't you?" Flint's voice is low and rough; he still hasn't looked up from the log. He crosses a T rather severely. 

"I might not be for long." 

"You going to bolt the door?" 

John blinks. "Am I - I'm sorry, what?"

Flint does look up, then, and for a second John's not sure if this is about to go very wrong or - there's a spark in Flint's eye, though, the beginnings of a smile he's starting to fail to keep back - Flint is playing with him. He's fucking _playing_ with him, he thinks he's being funny, and for a second John doesn't know what to do with that, it's - oh. Oh, he thinks, fuck, and something bright and eager turns over in his chest. 

He bolts the door.

Flint meets him halfway across the room, and John's throat goes tight, still half worried it might - but then Flint's hands are on him, gentle and a little hesitant, and in a rush John realizes he's barely breathed all day. "I'm glad you came," Flint says; his voice is still rough, but in a different way now, and John steps closer, one hand coming up to rest low and easy on Flint's hip. 

"Of course I did," he says. "Are you joking, it's all I could think about." Flint laughs, short, and maybe John just isn't used to the sound - but there's something missing from it, something off, and he reaches up to lay a hand on Flint's chest, leans into him until Flint looks up to meet his eyes, until Flint lets him see it. 

"You didn't think I was coming," John says, and honestly he's a little amazed - he's mostly used to Flint by now, but he still gets caught up in it sometimes, the myth of him - caught up enough he forgets to consider there could be another angle. "You weren't on deck because you didn't think I was coming. Are you forgetting I'm the one who kissed you, last night?" 

Flint starts to speak, frowns, stops again; John waits, lets him think about it, studying the creases on his forehead, the tight worried lines of his mouth. Were it anyone else, John would be prompting, digging, trying to find out where they were headed, if only so he could get there first - but he's used to this by now, used to the wide stretches that come sometimes between Flint's words, knows he's just putting them in order, dredging up the ones that matter - so he stays quiet, lets Flint puzzle through it, toward whatever unknown conclusion he's going to reach.

"Once is easy," Flint says, eventually; John's waiting for the quick glance that comes his way, and he's rewarded by Flint holding his gaze, the sharp edge bleeding out of his voice before it ever really makes itself known. "Once can be - explained, can be rationalized. Understood. We're at sea for so long, sometimes. We live in close quarters. Eat and sleep and work and fight and die together. It's - understandable, that something might happen. A mistake might be made. Once." He takes a breath, lets it out slow, and John might not have noticed the tremor at the end if he hadn't been listening for it. "I don't have time for once." 

He looks so fucking tired, John can't help thinking - and of course he does, it's a stupid thought, he's looked tired for months now, and with the things they've been through - but something pulls tight in his chest when he looks at Flint, something he doesn't have words for, something he can dance around but not get close to, not just yet. He wishes Flint could get some rest. 

John reaches up, runs his thumb along the edge of Flint's beard, just to watch Flint lean into the touch - fuck, he doesn't think he's ever going to get tired of that. "Then we should get to work," he says, and kisses Flint before he can react - hard and deep and long enough that by the time he pulls away, Flint's smiling against his mouth. "There's two," he says; "shall we keep count?" 

"I intend to lose count as soon as possible," Flint says, and - oh, John thinks, laughing while kissing is a new experience entirely - Flint walks them as one over to the desk, turns them so John can sit back on it, hands landing on either side of John's hips, sweeping the papers and books scattered across the surface aside - to the floor, mostly. 

"You're making a mess," John says, and Flint husks out a short laugh, nips his jaw. 

"Don't care," Flint says, and to be honest, John doesn't either. He reaches up to curl a hand around the back of Flint's neck, pulls him closer, leans until he can reach Flint's mouth to kiss him again - Flint sighs into it, soft, his hand coming up to rest on John's hip. He's standing close, between John's knees, leaning him back over the desk - and John doesn't know when that had happened, but he doesn't particularly care about that any more than the mess they're making of Flint's cabin. Flint is hot and solid and real above him, and it's too good to worry about the details. He mouths his way slow and wet down John's throat, licks again at that patch of skin he'd roughed up with his goddamned beard the night before - and John's laughing and gasping and arching into him, tipping his head to give Flint a better angle - he did it on purpose, John thinks, he did it to remind me, the fucking bastard - only he can't quite bring himself to be mad. 

"Come here," he says, reaching for Flint's shoulders, trying to drag him in, "come here," and Flint's leaning up to kiss his mouth, long and deep and slow - unhurried, like he isn't ever planning on stopping, like his touch doesn't burn like a brand, broad rough fingers stroking fire along John's ribs, waist to shoulder and back again. "I do like the coat," John says, the next time they part long enough to breathe, "but I'm starting to think you're a bit overdressed for this, come on, here - " 

Flint's eyes flash dark and hungry, and he growls low in his throat - agreement, or what passes for it with him, and John grins, pushes the coat back off his shoulders. 

"May I?" Flint says, and for a second John doesn't know what he's asking; he has to think about it, traces Flint's gaze down to his fingers clenched tight and still in the edge of John's shirt - to last night, when they'd got this far and he'd said, stop. 

"Please," John says, and he doesn't even try to stop himself from sounding too eager - he fucking is eager, and it feels like the least he can do for Flint, just now, to give him that. Flint laughs against his throat - laughs, bright and and warm and pleased, _Flint_ , and fuck, John thinks, will wonders never cease - he arches a little to let Flint work his shirt up and off, leans in quick again, barely giving Flint time to shrug out of his own shirt, too eager to get his hands on skin - 

And then he does, and neither of them are laughing, not any more. 

It's impossible to miss how Flint looks at him, how Flint touches him, even if he'd wanted to - slow and heavy and serious, like it's something to be careful about, like John is something far more valuable than a thieving cripple Flint can't quite seem to get rid of. It should be uncomfortable - he wants it to be uncomfortable - he should be squirming under the weight of it, but he's not. It feels - surprisingly good, letting Flint look at him like this. Letting Flint touch him. Christ, a day ago he wouldn't have been able to articulate he'd even wanted this, and now he's not sure he'll ever get enough. "God," Flint whispers, and his gaze is hot on John's throat, sliding down his chest. "You're - fuck, you are so beautiful." 

"Don't," John murmurs, "You don't have to do that," and he draws Flint up into another long kiss, just to shut him up - mostly to shut him up. It's - he knows he'd been attractive, once - modesty has never been one of his strong suits - and he's starting to get the impression it's been a very long time since Flint has been with anyone, attractive or not, so it's possible his perspective is a bit skewed. But still, he wishes Flint wouldn't lie to him. Not now. God, though, it's - he'd almost be willing to believe it, with how Flint's touching him, gentle and slow - if he couldn't feel the bite of the boot around his knee, he could almost believe it. 

"You were right, you know," Flint says - it comes out casual, almost conversational, and John frowns against the side of Flint's neck - what the fuck is he - "I should've stayed last night. We could be doing this in a bed." 

John huffs out a laugh, almost surprised - fuck, he doesn't know if he's ever going to get used to that. Notorious murdering pirate Captain Flint, making jokes. God above. "Looks like I was right about a lot of things," he says, and Flint laughs, bites his collarbone. 

"I should be careful," Flint says; "you seem to be developing quite the ego," but the edge on it is blunted, softened by his lips on John's throat, kissing a warm wet trail up toward his ear and John lets his eyes slip closed, lets himself moan, loud enough for Flint to hear. They're already close, but he wants - more, he wants Flint closer, he wants - he curls his good leg around the back of Flint's thighs, drags him in, and Flint stumbles, lurches forward, lands with his hips pressed up against John's at the edge of the desk - 

"Oh, fuck," John gasps, reflexive - it comes out high and thready and shaking, and he'd be embarrassed if Flint's face didn't look exactly like he's sure his does, just now. Flint is hard in his trousers - he can feel Flint's cock pressed up against his own, hot and solid even through the fabric, and it's - Christ, it's fucking exquisite. John can't think, just moves, arches against Flint, both hands sliding down his back to pull him closer, grins at the soft, cut-off noise Flint makes - "Please," he says, not even a thought for how it sounds, choked and desperate and wanting - "God, Captain, please." 

"Tell me to stop," he says, one hand slipping down John's chest, fingers curling around the ties of his breeches, "and I will." 

John kisses his ear, his cheek, his mouth when Flint turns enough to let him, his own hands on Flint's waist, keeping him close. "I know," he whispers, and Flint lets out a long, shaking breath against his lips. Flint's touch is gentle at his waist, hesitant as he unlaces John's breeches - John's breath comes fast and unsteady and he moans, encouraging, against Flint's ear - another moan, unplanned this time, as Flint takes him in hand, rough fingers curling around John's cock, loosely at first - then tighter, more assured - God, John suddenly can't fucking shut up, and he should be embarrassed, he should be fucking ashamed of himself, wanting it like this - but. "Please," he's gasping, hips lifting mindlessly into Flint's touch, "please, fuck, please - " and Flint's muttering low in his ear, not even words, just sounds, an occasional _yes_ or _fuck_ or _God, John_ rising to the surface, and John's clutching at his neck - God, why did he cut his fucking hair - dragging him in, trying to get him closer, like they're not pressed skin to skin already - 

There could be more, though, and as soon as he thinks about it he wants it - he whimpers and Flint turns to kiss him, hard and hot and bruising, his teeth in John's lip as John slides his hands down Flint's broad back. "Can I," John says - and he doesn't know why, doesn't fully understand why he's asking permission, except it's Flint and he still doesn't want to - he doesn't know, do the wrong thing, push him too hard, scare him - he'd come apart if Flint denied him now, but it's a baseless thought and _yes,_ Flint's saying, _yes, fuck, please_ , and his thumb slips quick and stuttering over the head of John's cock. 

Flint's skin is warm under his hands, surprisingly soft - especially once John gets past the waistband of his breeches, works them down, smooths his palms over Flint's hips. It's not like he's never done this before - it's not like he's done it frequently, either, but Flint's cock in his hand still feels new, thrilling, thin skin stretched tight over impossible heat - Flint makes a noise John can't even categorize, low and rough and drawn up from somewhere deep within him, his head dropping to rest on John's shoulder. "Fuck," he says, soft and breathy, thrusting shallowly against John's hand, "Oh, fuck - " 

"Yes," John whispers, slides his hand upwards, palms experimentally over the wetness already gathering at the head - Flint makes another terrible, beautiful noise and bites at John's shoulder, hard enough it'll mark, and fuck, John - he likes this, he _likes_ this, possibly a bit more than he should, Flint loose and pliant and helpless under his hands - he's seen Flint in all sorts of states, seen him at his lowest, at his most violent, and yet he's never seen him like this, not even his first day on the ship - uncontrolled, wild, acting on instinct and feeling, all rational thought lost to the winds. He likes it. 

It's quick - stamina has never been a problem for John, but frankly, it's been a long fucking time since anyone's touched him at all, much less like this - Flint's hands on him are firm and steady and sure, his mouth trailing fire down John's throat, across his chest, and John's holding it together, he thinks he's doing all right until Flint brings his other hand down between his legs, strokes up the inside of his thigh, two fingers dipping low to stroke over his entrance - and that's it, he's gone, crying out loud and sharp as he comes in a rush over Flint's hand.

There's a moment - he's half expecting it, but there's a moment where he's out of his head, where everything goes muted and quiet; when he comes back Flint's arms are around him, tight and strong, holding him up, long fingers trailing along his spine. He's still hard in John's hand, and John takes a breath, squeezes gently - he's still half-expecting something about how he's a selfish bastard, some comment on his impertinence, but - "Are you okay?" Flint says instead, his voice tight and strained, and it's not funny, not really, but John can't help laughing at him. 

"Oh my God," he says, "how are you still - of course I'm okay, I'm fucking brilliant, you're a goddamned madman, will you just - " he twists his hand on Flint's cock, bites his neck until he groans and arches forward, thrusts into the slickness between them - "Yes," John murmurs, licks at his ear, "fuck, yes, come on, let it go, you're all right, let go for me," and Flint's gasping high and sharp and wordless against his shoulder, his grip on John's waist tight and bruising, holding him still, holding him where he wants him as he comes. 

"You're all right," John whispers to him as he comes down, panting against the hollow of John's throat, hands roaming aimless and soothing over Flint's back. "God, that was beautiful, thank you, you're all right. It's fine, everything's fine." Flint lets out a soft breath, hugs John tight against him - just for a second, though, and then he's pulling away. "Wait," John says - he's not ready, he wants Flint's warmth against him still, wants Flint's skin under his hands, he's not ready yet - but Flint's already turning back, a cloth in hand, half a hesitant smile on his face.

"We've made a mess," he says, sheepish, and John laughs. 

"Looks like it." He reaches out, and Flint comes back to him, steps into his arms, steps close to kiss him, soft and slow. "I don't think I mind," he says into Flint's mouth, feels Flint's lips curve into a smile against his own.

"No, I don't imagine you do," Flint says. He cleans them up with short, efficient strokes - and John almost wants to tell him not to, wants to tell him to leave it, wants to wear the evidence of what they'd done on his skin - but he's got at least a little bit of pride left, so he stays quiet. Flint isn't going to ask him to stay - he can't imagine Flint asking him to stay - so he's not surprised when Flint sets the cloth aside, brushes another brief kiss against his lips. "Mister DeGroot will take you back to the island, when you want," he says, and John's not surprised, but.

"What if I don't want?" he says, and Flint smiles, soft and a little sad. 

"I - we should take some time. I'll see you at the village in the morning." 

"I'm sorry," John says; "If I - "

"You didn't." Each kiss is gentler than the last, and fuck, John never would have expected this, not from another man, not from Flint, of all fucking people. "You didn't, I - that was perfect. I'm sorry, I just - " 

And John understands, at least enough to not question him further; he kisses Flint so he doesn't have to finish the thought, wet and slow, his tongue in Flint's mouth and Flint's hand in his hair. "You'd best be on the very first longboat," he whispers against Flint's mouth, "or I swear, I'll swim out here and find you myself," and Flint huffs out a short laugh before he lets him go. 

"We can't leave the beach entirely defenseless," Flint says, and it takes John a second to catch up. "But I'd like to sail for Nassau as soon as possible. We've still temporarily got the advantage, and if we waste it we're going to regret it. I'll need you to make sure the village can protect itself until we return." He plucks John's shirt off the floor where it had landed, tosses it toward him. 

"I assume you'll want the guns back on board," he says, tugging the shirt over his head; Flint is looking at him when he emerges again, and for a second it's the soft, open expression John is almost coming to expect - who are you, John thinks, God, who _are_ you - but then he closes off again, shutters drawn, and it's just Flint stood there, the Walrus' captain, steely and unreachable. 

"Half," he says, "the rest stay on the beach," and John nods, slides off the desk as Flint bends, starts to gather up the papers and books they'd scattered. That's it, then, John thinks, and he tries to ignore the sliding disappointment in his gut - of course it was going to be like this, what was he expecting? It's Flint - Flint, who had laughed at him in Eleanor Guthrie's office when John first suggested they might be friends, Flint, who had seemingly effortlessly kept so much hidden from him, and for so long - what the fuck had he expected? He tightens the laces on his breeches, tugs his shirt down, turns to go. 

Flint stops him at the door, though, two quick steps across the cabin bringing them close again, his hand covering John's on the bolt. John turns to him, curious - not sure who he's going to see standing there - and Flint's other hand comes up to cup his face, draw him into one last kiss. "Thank you," he says, soft - soft enough John's not even sure he's meant to hear it - so he ignores it, mostly, just presses his cheek briefly against Flint's palm before he pulls away. 

"I'll see you in the morning," he says, and Flint nods, smiles, lets him go.


End file.
